the long winding road to utility

i believe i may finally have found my glorious opportunity to prove myself valuable, to separate myself from the hordes of expendables. i was recently squired as a valiant protectorate of the geospatial grail. for my main weapon, i was handed the standard issue yellow laptop case, and in my off-hand i brandish my trimble GPS device. may those who stand haughtily in the way of the Geospatial Alliance gaze upon our data-collecting Earth-orbiting satellites and trimble in fear!

as usual, no real pay. as usual, not full-time. as usual, small operation.

but uncharacteristically, trust has been placed in my hands.

now all i need to do is remember all my GIS.

confronting the hiatus

in confronting the hiatus, i brandish the shining sword of inspiration and clutch the shield of motivation, the sword i thrust far above my head and countless rays of light explode from its center, the shield gleams gold, and i leap towards my enemy with blade outstretched. the moment my feet leave the ground time slows, and i dexterously reposition my sword downward for a killing blow, noticing the perfect arc i am following through the air, mindful of the increasing space between my boot soles and the ground. my target is lashing its jowls in suspending time: the lips above his shining fangs betray long beads of spittle gathered in the jaws that hang down and whip to and fro as slimy pendulums. my sword meets its mark, the scaly neck, the shrill sound of steel against bone, the quick twist of the hilt and the fatal snap, and: the blog is written.

so-called winter

much too mild to be awarded that name. the days are muggy and bright, the sunlight pouring down as if to say, "may you never forget summertime!" oh, i remember what summertime feels like, but when the seasons change i'd like some more fitting meteorological phenomena. must the precipitation always be so liquid? the sunlight so warm? and, though more biological, must there always be some noxious flower in bloom, pumping its fragrances into the air, concocting some relentless sensory overload when all i wanted was the crisp clean winter air, free from green for a few months and reddening the insides of my nostrils, a fresh and biting sensation? those pierce tinglings that remind us of the frailties of our bodies, that the cold can penetrate our skin and vanquish our human haughtiness for just this fraction of the year?

and what does berkeley offer as a counter to our hubris of seasonal invulnerability? absolutely nothing. its nights are chilly, as some kind of weak vestigial idiosyncrasy derived from someplace that takes this season seriously. but come afternoon, the sun is out in full force, bathing the ground with bright baking rays that burn the iris and irritate the snow-lover. a downright poor substitute.